


mistletoe and holly

by flwrpotts



Category: Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Like so much, SO MUCH FLUFF, also j.b and chic are best friends fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13136979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flwrpotts/pseuds/flwrpotts
Summary: Jughead wakes to the smell of turkey roasting and Betty’s side of the bed empty.He stretches once, inhaling the stillness. It had snowed the night before, and New York City is quiet in the way it so rarely is, the entire world muffled and gone soft in the weak winter light. Jughead remembers it’s Christmas all at once, and kicks off the covers to pad into the kitchen.He finds Betty in there, basting a turkey with her trademarked precision and looking adorably rumpled. She has her mother’s floral apron on over his shirt and a pair of worn flannel pajama bottoms, hair loose around her face and wedding ring gleaming on her finger. Jughead takes a single moment to be awestruck that this is his life.ORmy contribution to the riverdale secret santa for bugheadotp. prompt: Betty and Jughead's first Christmas with their child. Jughead and Alice are trying to cook together whilst Betty is napping or trying to settle their son/daughter. FP and Hal bonding. JB and Polly keeping her twins entertained. Family fluff :)





	mistletoe and holly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bugheadotp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugheadotp/gifts).



> hiya!!! here is my unbelievably late contribution to the riverdale secret santa exchange! this is shameless, tooth rotting fluff, so I hope you like it!! also! i screwed around with chic and j.b's ages to make things work!! thank you so much for reading xoxo

_ Through the years we all will be together/ _

_ If the fates allow/ _

_ Hang a shining star upon the highest bough/ _

_ And have yourself a merry little Christmas now _

\- have yourself a merry little christmas, frank sinatra

* * *

 

Jughead wakes to the smell of turkey roasting and Betty’s side of the bed empty.

He stretches once, inhaling the stillness. It had snowed the night before, and New York City is quiet in the way it so rarely is, the entire world muffled and gone soft in the weak winter light. Jughead remembers it’s Christmas all at once, and kicks off the covers to pad into the kitchen.

He finds Betty in there, basting a turkey with her trademarked precision and looking adorably rumpled. She has her mother’s floral apron on over his shirt and a pair of worn flannel pajama bottoms, hair loose around her face and wedding ring gleaming on her finger. Jughead takes a moment to be awestruck that this is his life, that he gets to have this.

She turns and shuts the oven, and her smile is soft when she catches Jughead staring in the doorway. “Merry Christmas, sleepyhead,” she teases, smile warm, and he walks over to kiss her, sighing when her flour-streaked arms come up to loop around his neck.

Her mouth is just starting to open under his when a cry pierces the air, and they both laugh. 

“I’ll get her,” Jughead mumbles into her mouth, and Betty smiles gratefully as she pulls away from him. 

The clock has only just struck six a.m, but Charlotte is wide awake when Jughead enters her room. He picks up the seven-month old, rocking her back and forth until her cries subside and pressing kisses to the downy tuft of dark hair, a mirror image of his own. 

“Want to go see Mum?” he asks pulling on the baby-sized Santa hat he had ordered online. 

“Hats are a Jones tradition,” he informs her seriously, “Very suave.”

Charlotte smiles gummily at him, and Jughead makes his way back into the kitchen, stomach grumbling. 

“There’s my little elf,” Betty says happily when she catches sight of the baby, taking her from Jughead to scatter her face with kisses.

“She’s Santa, Betts, not an elf,” he replies, “We’re giving her the opportunity to be self-employed.”

Betty rolls her eyes fondly, and shifts Charlotte onto her hip. 

“And now Mummy’s going to put dried rosemary on the potatoes, because seasoning is important,” she informs her, because she read on a parenting website that explaining things to babies helps their brains grow. Jughead briefly considers making a  _ Rosemary’s Baby _ joke, but decides against it when Betty starts explaining to Charlotte the mechanics of ovens. Instead, he takes in the apartment.

Somehow, Betty’s managed to turn their warm, cramped home into a winter wonderland in a matter of hours. There’s a tiny Christmas tree in the corner, bowed under the weight of tinsel and ornaments, and bunches of holly are strung up along the doorframes. Their old, shitty record player is spinning a Bing Crosby album, and Jughead inhales the scent of cooking food and cheap wintery candles that permeates the room. 

“Here- can you?” Betty starts, distracting him from his reverie, and Jughead is already there to take Charlotte back, bouncing her lightly in his arms. 

He straps her into her high chair  and begins to brew a pot of coffee, making faces at the baby to keep her from crying. It’s the familiar treads of their well-worn morning routine, the sort of domestic bliss he never thought he’d quiet achieve. 

“What can I help with?” he asks, and Betty pecks him on the corner of the mouth when he hands her a mug of coffee, taking a long sip.

“Be my taste tester?” she says with a grin, warm and happy and  _ relaxed _ , despite the fact that they’re hosting Christmas for the first time. 

“And that is why I love you,” he declares loftily, “You ready for the chaos?”

“Absolutely,” she replies.

* * *

 

The knock on the door comes at two in the afternoon, and people start to pour in. 

Their parents are there, of course- an immaculately put-together Alice and Hal, F.P trailing in behind them with a bottle of sparkling cider. Polly is soon to follow, looking only a little harried as the twins, soon to be six, begin to immediately wreak havoc on the apartment. Chic lifts Betty off her toes when he hugs her, and J.B greets her just as warmly. The living room is crowded with people, but Jughead somehow manages to avoid the claustrophobic discomfort that plagued his adolescence. 

Charlotte, however, is not so welcoming of all the new people. After being passed around by all her relatives, including the twins, she begins to cry, and Betty is quick to swoop her up. 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she says, trying to shush Charlotte as she walks out of the room. 

Jughead wonders briefly if this means he has to take over as the host ( _ What does a host even do? Offer hors d’oeuvres? Take coats?)  _ but Alice Cooper takes control of the situation before he can awkwardly offer anyone a drink.

“Polly, dear, why don’t you let the twins help decorate the Christmas cookies? Chic, J.B, help them to not destroy the kitchen. Hal, F.P’s motorcycle has an issue with the transmission, grab the toolbox, perhaps you can help him.”

“Always a pleasure, Allie,” F.P says with a smirk, and Polly and Jughead exchange a mutual glance of disgust.  _ That  _ had been a story he wasn’t prepared for when it first came out. 

The two men disappear, leaving Jughead to linger in the living room, but before he can find Betty, Alice points a vaguely accusatory finger at him. 

“Jughead, you can help me in the kitchen,” she commands. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters under his breath, but follows after her. 

She hands him a bowl of potatoes to mash, seemingly materialized out of thin air, and begins to chop vegetables with a deadly accuracy. 

“Charlotte looks big,” Alice says, breaking the silence, and Jughead is grateful for the one topic he can talk about at length. 

“Yeah, she’s eating like a champ,” he says fondly, “It’s the Jones in her.”

Much to his surprise, Alice laughs. 

“Trust me, I remember all too well,” she says, and another silence falls in the kitchen, albeit more comfortable than before. The sound of J.J and Chloe’s childish laughter seeps in from the living room, and Jughead wonders if Charlotte will sound like that when she’s older, if she’ll inherit the twins’ pale complexions and skinny legs, or if she’ll look more like J.B, all dark hair and expressive eyebrows. 

They chat idly for a few minutes, interspersed with Alice giving him stern directions on how to properly baste a turkey. 

“Betty seems… happy,” Alice says suddenly, voice soft, “More relaxed than she used to be. Content.”

Jughead flounders for a response, unprepared for the turn in conversation. “She is,” he replies finally, “We all are.”

Alice nods at that, still vigorously whisking something or another. “I wasn’t always the easiest parent. I wanted her to have a better upbringing than I did, get the opportunities I never had. It took me years to realize all the pressure I put on her.”

Jughead makes a clumsy, half-hearted attempt to protest, but Alice waves him off in a move that leaves a splatter of cake batter against the wall.

“I spent her childhood so afraid that she would fall back into the life I tried so hard to run away from. And then she fell in love with you, and I thought the cycle was destined to repeat itself. That you would drag her back into the Southside, and I would lose her”

Jughead winces, but Alice continues, determined. “But you saw her for the person she really was. For all of Hal and I’s flaws, she always had people who loved her. People like you. I’m happy that Betty has you, Jughead. That you’re the one she chose to be her family.”

He tries to put words to the warmth in his chest. It would be impossible to explain all the ways that Betty makes him better; the way he loves her, loves the child they made together. So, he returns the favor instead. 

“She’s always admired you,” he says, “Even when you weren’t getting along, she’s always loved you.”

He’s surprised to find how deeply he means it. No matter how bitterly Betty and Alice fought, Betty has always loved her mother fiercely. And he admires Alice, too, he realizes, her dedication to the people she loves and her razor-sharp intellect, the way she clawed her way out of the Southside and built a new life from scratch. 

Alice looks like she’s about to say something else, but Betty suddenly walks into the kitchen. 

“Charlotte’s finally asleep,” she says with a relieved sigh, moving to hug Jughead from behind and press a kiss to his cheek. It’s the sort of easy affection that still sends a pang through his chest. “How’s everything going?”

“Everything’s going well, dear,” Alice says, “Now, help me plate the asparagus.”

* * *

 

Hal Cooper is a man of simple priorities. He loves his wife, his children, and the Riverdale Register. But, as he grabs a wrench, he can’t help but wonder if he should be more uncomfortable spending Christmas with his wife’s ex-boyfriend-slash-the father of his daughter’s husband. F.P, for his part, looks unperturbed as he blows steam from an e-cigarette, his one vice after finally quitting the booze and cigarettes.

Leaning against a brick wall, Forsythe Pendleton Jones II looks like the ghostly reflection of the seventeen year old he once was, back when their world was so life or death. Hal can still picture F.P as a teenager- the star football player who laughed loud, fought hard, ruled the school with the strength of his spine and Serpent tattoo. The disparity between F.P the boy and F.P the man continues to shock him. 

Hal straightens from where he’s bent over the motorcycle, the same rusty hunk of metal that used to be parked outside house parties at the Blossom manor.

“Cars are more my forte,” he says, “But I know some about bikes. Do you want me to fix it up for you?”

“No,” says F.P, and Hal feels the embarrassment sweep through him. He had been an average teenager- good family, good grades, good-looking- but never _ exceptional _ . Never  _ extraordinary _ . It’s impossible, that he should be well into adulthood and still jealous of F.P, a man who served jail time for  _ burying a teenager’s body _ , but the mixture of shame and inadequacy curdles his stomach all the same.

But F.P continues. “I’d like you to show me how to fix it up myself, if you could. No point in having the damn thing if I can’t put it back together.”

Hal laughs, surprised. “Yeah, alright,” he says, “Hand me that socket wrench.”

They work in near silence, punctuated only by Hal asking for various tools and F.P’s occasional question about what he’s doing. 

“Damn, Coop,” F.P says when they’re done, a nickname Hal hasn’t heard in over two decades. “You’re good at this.”

“I worked at a mechanic’s in high school,” he admits, “Picked up a couple of tricks along the way.”

F.P laughs, boisterous, and claps Hal on the back. “This is more than just a couple tricks,” he says, “It looks as good as the day I bought it.”

The conversation digresses, and they debate about makes and models and finishes, playfully ribbing one another over their tastes, which then turns into them talking about Charlotte, fawning over their baby granddaughter. Hal loses track of time, and doesn’t realize how long they’ve been out in the apartment parking lot until Alice leans out from over the balcony, looking severe in her checkered apron.

“We’re eating now,” she says, and F.P gives her a mock salute in reply. “Aye aye, captain,” he calls, and Alice throws a wooden spoon at his head. 

But Hal only laughs, cuffing F.P on the head. “She loves her schedules,” he says, and the two men burst into laughter. Alice rolls her eyes, haughty, and retreats back into the apartment.

“Let’s go eat,” he says, and sends up a silent  _ thank you  _ that they aren’t in high school anymore.

* * *

 

“Auntie Jelly,” Chloe says excitedly, “Look at my cookie! It’s a purple snowman!”

J.B dutifully examines the cookie, which very much resembles a vaguely snowman shaped bruise, and responds with an appropriate amount of enthusiasm. 

“Wow!” she gasps. “That looks  _ awesome _ , Chloe, do you think you could make me a cookie?”

The five year old in question immediately starts decorating a candy cane shaped cookie, and Polly sends her an appreciative look. J.B adores the twins, despite the unfortunate moniker of  _ Auntie Jelly _ , which she already knows is going to be passed down to Charlotte.

Polly moved to the city when the twins were born, in a combined desire to be out of Riverdale and closer to her sister. When J.B came to the city a few years later to start at NYU, she somehow got roped into being Polly’s go-to babysitter, spending at least one night a week crashing on the older Cooper girl’s couch.

While she was initially distrustful of Polly’s aggressive cheerfulness, the blonde quickly became a sort of pseudo-sister, someone to turn to when Jughead was consumed with wedding planning and being a New York Times best-selling author.

Like Betty, Polly’s nice girl appearance was a facade for a kind of weird, but ultimately wonderful person underneath, and she was one of the only people who could make J.B laugh so hard her sides hurt. And besides, the twins were a whirlwind of red hair and mischief, and J.B could spend endless hours listening to their made-up stories and overly complicated games.

“Auntie Jelly,” says J.J, voice teetering on a whine, “I want a piggyback ride!”

“Me too!” Chloe yells from where she’s currently decorating Jughead and Betty’s cat, Oscar Wilde, with red frosting. 

“How about a race?” Chic asks, and the twins screech with excitement.

Chic, Betty and Polly’s long-lost older sibling who may or may not be J.B’s half brother (she prefers not to think about it) moved to NYC the same year that Jellybean did, transferring from a state school to Columbia for his junior year. They became roommates the year after, moving into a shitty little apartment in Brooklyn, and soon they were best friends- fighting over takeout and shepherding one another’s one night stands out in the morning. 

“Prepare to go down,” J.B taunts, crouching down so that Chloe can climb onto her back. Chic does the same for J.J, and the two college students go sprinting off, rounding the sharp corners of Jughead and Betty’s apartment and attempting to elbow one another. The twins scream gleefully, and Betty and Polly cheer as Alice looks on disapprovingly. 

J.B pulls off a narrow victory, ducking under Chic’s arm in the doorway, and her and Chloe spend several minutes gloating about their victory.

“You’re getting slow,” she tells Chic with a raised eyebrow, taking a satisfying bite of frosting-smeared cookie.

“In your dreams,” he says, rolling his eyes in perfect imitation of Betty.

* * *

 

“Dinner’s ready!” Betty calls, and everyone files into the dining room, elbowing for seats and making jokes. Alice and Betty serve, and J.B boos loudly when Betty gives Jughead bigger portions than anyone else. Charlotte is there in her highchair, looking gleeful as she mashes handfuls of potatoes into her hair. 

All three of the Jones’ begin to dig into their food, but are stopped when Alice shoots F.P a glare so withering he drops his fork with a loud clatter. “We need to say grace,” Hal explains. 

“I think Jughead should do the honors,” Polly says with an encouraging smile. “He is a published author, after all.”

Jughead looks distinctly uncomfortable, and then annoyed when J.B cuts in. 

“ _ Yes _ , sweet brother of mine. Let’s hear it!” she coos, voice syrupy. 

“I’m not much one for organized religion,” he starts, and Chic coughs something that sounds a lot like  _ Great start.  _ “But- here’s to family. The one we’re born with, and the one we make along the way.”

He raises his glass to Betty, eyes soft and full of feeling, and everyone else follows in suit. The moment is broken a few seconds later, when Charlotte realizes she’s no longer the center of attention and begins to wail. 

F.P ends up holding her the rest of the meal, bouncing her on his lap as he talks animatedly with Polly about  _ Days of Our Lives _ , their shared guilty pleasure. J.B and Alice sit next to one another so that Alice can give her advice on making the most of her journalism program and the best way to bribe coroners. Hal and Chic debate football teams, and the twins continue to pelt one another with peas from across the table, giggling madly. 

And at the head of the table are Betty and Jughead, holding hands under the table and generally being, as J.B would put it, “disgustingly in love.” They’re arguing about the latest Tarantino movie, but Jughead’s faux-indignation falls a little flat when he’s playing footsie with Betty underneath the table.

* * *

 

The Christmas festivities begin to wind down after dinner, full of lazing around on the comfortable, thrift store couches and drinking Betty’s famous homemade hot chocolate. There’s a game of Scrabble that Jughead takes far too seriously, looking distinctly put-out when Alice wins the game by three points. Charlotte is passed from one lap to one another, and eventually falls asleep as Betty holds her. 

But everyone leaves at eight, departing in a flurry of hugs and laughter, and then it’s just Jughead and Betty, Charlotte fast asleep in her room. The house is filled with the sort of warm, comfortable silence that comes after a holiday. 

Jughead switches the Ella Fitzgerald holiday record over to a Chuck Berry one, skipping until  _ You Never Can Tell  _ comes on. Betty’s washing the dishes, but she laughs when Jughead sings along mockingly.

“Alright, John Travolta,” she teases, flicking dish suds at his hair. But she hums along to the record as she washes plates, Jughead drying beside her. They clean the kitchen that way, imitating their family members and placing bets on when Archie will work up the nerve to propose to Veronica. 

When everything’s finally put away, Jughead kisses her, pressing her body into the kitchen counter. Betty slides her hands up under his shirt, and he hitches her up to settle on the counter, preening. 

“We’re in the  _ kitchen, _ ” she says, giggling a little breathlessly when Jughead starts to undo her jeans.

“We’ll just clean it again,” he murmurs against his mouth, earning another huff of laughter from Betty as she yanks at this belt buckle.

They have sex like that, Betty’s legs wrapped tight around his waist and one hand over her mouth to stay quiet. At one point, her head falls back against the cabinets with a clunk, and Jughead scrabbles to cup the back of her head in his hand.

When it’s over, she kisses him, gentle and open-mouthed, so that he can feel her smile against him. 

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Jones,” he says, only a little sarcastic.

“The same to you, Mr. Jones,” Betty says coyly, hopping off the counter to retrieve her abandoned tights. 

They go upstairs not long after, and Jughead takes Charlotte into the bed with them even though he knows he’s supposed to let her sleep in the crib. 

“I meant it, what I said earlier,” Jughead says, just as they’re both on the edge of sleep.

“Hm?”

“About you being my family. I mean, of course we’re married and we have Charlotte, but you also gave me a whole extended family, Betts. I never thought I’d get to have that. I thought I was a person who wasn’t meant to have a happy ending.”

Betty presses a kiss to his palm, and then his mouth. “I love you,” she says, “So much, Juggie.”

“Love you too, Betts.” 

They fall asleep like that, the three of them, and Jughead mentally takes back every snarky remark he’s ever made about Christmas. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! please know that i am endlessly grateful for any and all comments/kudos!


End file.
